


the invention of the modern piano

by illuminatedcities



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Harold-centric, M/M, Piano
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-09
Updated: 2016-05-09
Packaged: 2018-06-07 08:54:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6797449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illuminatedcities/pseuds/illuminatedcities
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A brief list of things Harold’s mother left him before she packed her suitcase and got on a Greyhound bus to Florida to live with a man who runs a used car sale store: a paperback romance novel tucked between the sofa cushions, a handful of coins, a silk scarf curled up on the kitchen counter like a sleeping fox, his father’s broken heart and a love for music.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the invention of the modern piano

**Author's Note:**

> for teaanddenial. <3

A brief list of things Harold's mother left him before she packed her suitcase and got on a Greyhound bus to Florida to live with a man who runs a used car sale store: a paperback romance novel tucked between the sofa cushions, a handful of coins, a silk scarf curled up on the kitchen counter like a sleeping fox, his father's broken heart and a love for music.

Harold's mother used to drive him into town in her battered old Ford that smelled like cigarettes and had gold and black lipstick tubes rolling around in the glove department. She dropped Harold off for his piano lessons and bought him ice cream later, vanilla cones even in the middle of winter.

The first few lessons were agony: instead of the lovely, melodic sounds Harold's music teacher teased out of the instrument, his attempts sounded like an arthritic dog walking over the keys. Mrs. Collins, a gentle woman who smelled of peppermint and Chanel No. 5, made him sit down next to her and go through the same piece over and over again until he could play it without a single mistake.

Practice, Harold had discovered, persistence and discipline were much more important than talent: a lesson that served him well for the rest of his life. He stopped taking lessons after his mom left. Harold told his father it was because the drive into town was so long, because they didn't have gas money to spare, because he never really liked playing the piano anyway. The truth was that Harold couldn't touch a piano without hearing his mother's throaty laughter, or seeing the two of them on a bench in the afternoon sun, eating their ice cream cones.

(Harold keeps the scarf in a box hidden in a remote part of the library. It doesn't smell of her perfume anymore, and he can't even remember her wearing it. Still, he can't make himself throw it out.)

Harold doesn't think about his piano lessons for years. Then Nathan, his absurdly charming, generous roommate who will get him into serious trouble one day, sneaks them into a fancy party off-campus where they end up drinking sparkling wine and eating shellfish bites from silver trays.

Harold spots the piano in the corner immediately, a gorgeous Steinway made of polished black wood, the white keys like a line of perfectly straight teeth. Harold sits down on the piano bench to admire the instrument when a woman in a sleek blue cocktail dress approaches him with a Martini in hand. "Do you play?", she asks.

"I used to," Harold says. His fingers are itching.

"Play something," she says, brushing her hair away from her face. "Please."

Harold takes a look around the room, where people are talking to each other or getting drinks at the well-stocked bar. Nobody seems to object to his presence at the instrument. Nathan is at the other end of the room charming a group of girls. Harold puts his fingers to the keys, muscle memory over nervousness.

He plays the first notes of Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_. They come out a little wobbly, but he gains confidence and soon the melody is smooth, effortless, like greeting an old friend and sliding into pleasant conversation. Harold changes seamlessly into the _Nocturnes_ after, then some Debussy he remembers.

When he looks up, Nathan is standing right next to him. A few of the guests applaud politely.

(Nathan later tells him that he knew that they would be friends from the moment they met, but that it was that night, when he saw Harold playing the piano, completely absorbed in the music, that he fell in love with him. It doesn't hurt that much to play, after, or if it does, Harold learns how to bear it. Maybe just because something hurts it doesn't mean that it's not worth remembering.)

There is a piano in one of Harold's safehouses, and one rainy afternoon John talks Harold into playing for him. John lies on the couch, pretending to be indifferent, but when Harold finally sighs and walks over to the piano bench, John sits up and watches him with interest. Even Bear cracks an eye open from where he's dozing on his pillow.

Harold plays _Liebestraum No.3 in A-flat Major_. He waits for the familiar pain – his mother, Nathan, all the things he has loved and lost – and it comes, but slowly, like a gentle wave.

John gets up from the couch and walks over to him. Just when Harold thinks that John will sit down next to him on the small piano bench, he sinks to his knees on the carpet. John stays like that, and when Harold plays the final notes and looks at John, his eyes are closed and his expression is completely relaxed. He looks _happy._

"My mother used to play," Harold says. "She made me take lessons when I was young." It seems important that John knows this, for some reason. Harold doesn't remember talking about his mother to anyone since Nathan, and suddenly Harold can feel all the unsaid words press against the back of his throat. _My father didn't remember me, in the end. There is a box in the library that contains–_

John opens his eyes. He smiles. "Play something else," he says, "please."

Harold swallows the words back down. He has time. _They_ have time. He puts his hands on the keys, muscle memory over the tightness in his chest, the thick lump of emotion in his throat. ( _"You try again,"_ Mrs. Collins had said. _"Every time you fail, you try and try again. It's as simple as that. You take a deep breath, and then you just start playing.")_

A brief list of things that John gave Harold when he came into his life: endless orders of Sencha green tea, boxes of donuts, a dog, the possibility of justice, a thick folder full of photographs of lives saved, kisses between the dusty shelves of the library, soothing hands on Harold's aching back and love, love, _love._ Harold plays and plays until his hands are aching, and John kisses Harold's fingertips after, as if Harold has performed some kind of miracle.


End file.
